


And I must scream

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: IT Fanfics [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Canon - Movie, Horror, M/M, Post-Movie, chapter 2, hints of book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: It made a low, rumbling sound in its throat and leaned closer, cool breath rolling over Bill’s face.He didn’t like how vivid this dream was. It felt real enough that it was hard to distinguish the sensations from reality.“There’s more than one way to float, Billy,” it said quietly.Upon returning to Derry at Mike’s behest, Bill has an odd dream. It turns out the line between love and hate really is as thin as they say.





	And I must scream

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, this is a future fic, so all the Losers are in their late thirties. It can still be enjoyed without having read the book, though, since I follow movie canon for the most part!
> 
> Secondly, it's not a happy fic. At all. Tread carefully.

Bill was in the barrens. Bill didn’t know why he was there or how he had come to be there, but he didn’t care; he was quite happy to sit among the brush skirting the barrens and watch as water struggled over rocks and through crevices, surging in some places and crawling in others. The sight reminded him of his youth and the hot summer days spent in this very location. He remembered the warmth and the camaraderie and childish delight.

And when he heard mad, noxious laughter, he remembered  _other_  things as well.

Jarred out of his reverie, Bill attempted to rise to his feet, preparing to fight, should he need to – and was promptly pushed back down into the grass by a heavy hand.

He turned to see Pennywise seating itself next to him, as towering and imposing as ever. Even as an adult, Bill was small enough to be smothered by its shadow. It held a bundle of balloons in its white-gloved hand, and Bill could see that ‘I heart Derry’ was scrawled across each one in block letters.

The hand on his shoulder didn’t withdraw. It continued to press him into the grass, preventing escape. He could feel the impossible chill of his skin radiating through his plaid shirt.

“Billy,” It murmured. Gooseflesh rose on his arms as its thumb slid into the crevice of his collarbone. The hint of a pointed nail grazed the fabric. “How do you like this dream?”

Bill swallowed. “This is a d-d-dream?”

“I made it just for you,” It said. It spoke with such a cloying sweetness that Bill could practically feel the sugar melting on his tongue.

 _This was what It had sounded like before killing Georgie_ , he thought.

“G-guess I can t-tell you you're gonna die w-w-without ru-r-repercussions, then,” he said, turning to gaze at the stream below.

"What makes you think there wouldn't be reprecussions? You should be  _grateful_ for this _,_  Billy,” It said with faux offence, its voice rising in volume and pitch. The hand on his shoulder tugged him closer. “Don’t you like it? Don’t you like the stream? The nice blue sky?” He was smothered in red as Pennywise released the cluster of balloons into the glare of the sun, the shadow of them landing squarely over his body. “I even brought you balloons.”

Bill’s pulse thrummed madly in his neck. Dream or not, the close proximity was making it hard not to panic. “M-m-might be grateful if you sh-s-shove them down your th-t-throat,” he said, sneering. “If you’re t-t-that eager to p-please, do something w-w-worthwhile.”

The balloons were slowly drifting out of sight, spreading across the bright blue sky.

“Such an impertinent boy.” It slid its long fingers up to his chin and turned his face so they were eye to eye, holding him in place. He grappled with its wrist and found himself unable to dislodge it. No surprise there. He hadn’t been able to do that as a kid, either.

“Using your b-big words? D-didn’t know you hu-h-had them.”

He watched its tongue slide over its pointed incisors. It was slimy and thick and red and absolutely dripping with saliva. A messy cord slithered down Pennywise’s chin and soaked into its ruffles.

“I have many words, Billy. I, the eternal one, have many words.”

Bill’s found himself unable to reply, his throat seizing as its eyes bore down on him, endlessly bright. The ethereal depths drew him in, clinging like hooks to his skin.

“You’ll hear them, soon.”

“N-no,” he stammered in protest, though he wasn’t sure why. How bad could  _words_  be? Surely it was its  _teeth_  Bill should be worrying about.

But there was something about the way It said it, the promise in each slow, hissing syllable.

“No?”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time.

Pennywise frowned and tilted its head slowly, as though it didn’t quite understand the meaning of the word. And maybe it didn’t, because how many people had dared say no to Pennywise in this context? Before now, had It ever even approached someone in this manner? The way It had approached the Losers in the past suggested it didn’t maintain long conversation with its food.

Then why was it talking to  _Bill_? If it wanted to scare him, it’d had ample opportunity to do so. It could conjure up visions of his little brother and Bill would inevitably awaken with moisture on his cheeks and a scream tearing from his throat. He couldn’t discern the purpose of indulging Bill with the sun-warm barrens of his youth. It made him happy to be here, and as far as he was aware, promoting happiness wasn’t normal for It.

Then why…

The long game, perhaps? But there didn’t seem to be much point in extending the fright of a dream. Worst case scenario, he would wake up a little sweaty and sad, and the dream would dissolve into the recesses of his mind by the time he started preparing breakfast. It would be a wasted effort.

“Why are you d-doing this?” he asked. The smooth fabric of its glove slid along the sharp jut of his jaw, almost a caress.

“I can drop the niceties,” It said, voice low and cold. “This can be  _very_  unpleasant for you.”

“It’s already u-u-unpleasant for me.”

“Then I’ll make it  _pleasantly_  unpleasant.”

It made a low, rumbling sound in its throat and leaned closer, cool breath rolling over Bill’s face.

He didn’t like how  _vivid_  this dream was. It felt real enough that it was hard to distinguish the sensations from reality.

“There’s more than one way to float, Billy,” it said quietly.

Gooseflesh rose on his forearms. Thoughtlessly, Bill put his legs between them, curling them against his chest as a barrier. One of Pennywise’s free hands dropped to cup his knee. The other lingered on his jaw, stroking idly.

“Come float, Billy.”

He tried, fruitlessly, to scramble back. He didn’t get far before It reeled him back in with those long, dangerous fingers.

“I’ll show you how,” It hissed, pressing him down, wedging itself against his body, against his quaking knees and clamouring hands. “I’ll show you.”

Blood rushed in his ears.

“Bill,” It said.

“Bill.”

“Bill.”

His elbow struck something soft and pliant, and as he peeled open his wet eyes, it registered that he was lying on the damp sheets of a motel bed rather than the springy grass of the barrens.

Eddie was hunched over him, wheezing and clutching his belly.

 “Oh, shit.” He shot upright, reaching for his wincing friend. He placed gentle hands upon Eddie’s thin shoulders. “Did I h-h-hurt you? I’m so s-sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Eddie with a wavering smile. “I just- I heard you moaning, and I was concerned.”

“I was m-moaning?”

“Yes. You were quite loud, too. You must've been having some nightmare.”

As Bill shimmied himself to the edge of his mattress, he became uncomfortably aware of how sweat-slick his skin was. He must have been perspiring buckets in his sleep. Despite this, Eddie didn't seem at all bothered by their close proximity. As a child, he would have withdrawn in disgust, citing one of the thousands of illnesses that could be transmitted through body fluids.

Of course, it  _had_  been over twenty years since he’d last seen Eddie, and he may have overcome his hypochondria without his mother around to exacerbate it. According to Eddie, she had died some years prior from a heart attack. Bill couldn't say he was surprised. High strung as she'd been, it was a miracle she'd lived through Eddie's childhood.

“Guess I did,” he said, rising from the bed to throw an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “C’mon, I-I-I’ll buy you b-b-breakfast and s-some cuh-c-coffee. It’s the least I can do a-aff-ter hitting you in the s-stomach.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Eddie opened the door for him. “You, uh…” He hesitated. “Did you want to talk about the dream, Bill? It sounded pretty bad.”

“Nah," said Bill. "I’m fine.” It was already slipping from his mind, little more than a hazy recollection of thoughts and feelings. Heat, and red, and a terrible pain as claws slipped smoothly into his skin and wrenched his barrier apart – but he didn’t want to think about that.

* * *

In the two decades following their encounter with It, Bill had become a renowned author with numerous best sellers. The others had been similarly fortuitous, making well over one hundred thousand a year in their respective fields, affording them the kind of lifestyle most could only dream of. Only one of them couldn’t boast such figures, and that, unsurprisingly, was the only Loser that hadn’t left Derry. Mike had a respectable occupation as a librarian, but he worked long hours and barely made above minimum wage. He looked the part of one near poverty, too, with his lined face and salt and pepper hair. Permanent black bags ringed his eyes and tendrils of red crawled in toward the iris'. When he spoke, his voice was soft and scratchy, and he would frequently pause between each new sentence. Being the only one to remember It had aged him prematurely.

The others were gradually recalling the adversity they had faced as children, but it was a slow, halting process, and even Bill, who Mike referred to as having been the ‘instigator’ and ‘bravest of them all’, could only remember their fight with It in vague, flittering stills.

It had taken the face of his brother in an attempt to deceive him. Bill remembered that much.

Partway through breakfast, Mike planted his hands flat on the table and made an announcement. “I know how to beat it."

Bill almost choked on a mouthful of pancake in his haste to speak. “H-how?” he asked, forcing himself to swallow.

At that exact same moment, Richie spoke. “So we  _don’t_ just kick it’s ass?” he asked. He had managed to spill some of his coffee on his tacky Hawaiian shit. “I don't remember much, but that seemed to work pretty well last time.”

“If it had worked ‘pretty well’, It wouldn’t be alive,” said Mike. “While I was researching ways to beat It, I discovered the Ritual of Chud. That's how we kill it.”

Beverly and Eddie shot him a quizzical look, while Ben appeared cautiously intrigued. Bill, meanwhile, was experiencing some dread for what this ‘ritual’ might entail. 

“The ritual,” Mike began, and every single person sitting at the table stared at him in rapt attention. Even Richie, which was quite a feat for the man. “Is initiated by going in  _wanting_  to initiate it. That's the easy part."

"There are books on this?" asked Ben, bewildered. 

Mike hesitated. "No. I altered my mind in order to find this information, and as I was-"

"Are you saying you took drugs?" asked Richie. Bill's jaw fell slack.

Mike answered with a terse nod. 

"Fuck, M-Mike," whispered Bill. 

"It's okay," Mike assured them. "It's just what I had to do. I've stopped now and I'm gradually getting better."

"I'm so sorry, Mike," whispered Beverly, and Mike pressed his palms to his eyes, openly exasperated.

"It's okay. Just... just let me continue, alright? Please. This is  _important_."

Everyone at the table obliged, closing their mouths so Mike could continue.

"Now," Mike began, looking at each of them in turn, presumably to make sure they weren't about to interrupt him. "Once you've started the ritual, you need to bite down or it'll shake you off.”

“Bite down on what?” asked Beverley incredulously.

“Its tongue.”

There was nothing Bill wanted to do less, and the others seemed to share this sentiment, their faces contorting in disgust.

“I don’t think it has to be literal,” Mike amended quickly. “You have to get a grip on Its  _mind_.”

“What, its  _mind-tongue_? You probably should’ve said that first,” said Richie with a grin. “I still would have done it for you guys, but you would have had to provide me with mouthwash for the next decade as compensation for my sacrifice. I like the pink mint, for future reference.”

Everyone at the table broke into laughter, and the mirth only died down when Mike resumed speaking.

“Once you have a grip on it, it’s vulnerable,” he continued. “I'm not sure about this part, but riddles  _might_  be necessary at that point.”

“Riddles,” said Bill dryly, wiping the edge of an eye with a thumb. He was still tired from his premature awakening. “T-think it would be su-s-safe to google some?”

Ben snorted. “C’mon Bill, you’re a writer. Write a few.”

“I could try, as long as you don’t mind b-b-bringing shitty a-ameture riddles to the fu-f-final confron-tu-tation.”

Mike raised a hand in a request for attention. All eyes returned to him.

“Like I said, riddles might be necessary.  _Might_. I’m sure, at the time of the confrontation, you’ll be able to think of something.” He looked pointedly at Bill as he spoke, and Bill sat up straighter in his seat, like a child that had drawn the gaze of a teacher.

When the time came, he knew what his role would be.

“We’ll do it tonight,” Mike said. The Losers exchanged uneasy glances. 

"Are you sure we shouldn't wait until we remember everything?" Eddie ran a nervous hand through his neatly combed hair. Most of them only remembered the confrontation in a trickle of memories and it did not foster confidence to recall so little. "I barely even remember what It looks like."

Mike shook his head. “By tonight, you’ll remember everything about what happened. I know you will.”

“What if we don’t?” asked Eddie.

“You will,” Mike assured him. He reached for the pot of coffee sitting in the middle of the table, next to a vase of daisies. “Now, we’d better finish breakfast. The buffet closes at eleven and I had to pay extra since I don't have a room here.”

Richie shot up from his seat. “Eleven!? Shit, you guys had better left some bacon for me!”

“Well,  _most_  of us were here by nine,” Eddie pointed out. “We already ate.”

Richie huffed. “I’m not waking up at the crack of dawn for the local eldritch abomination, Eds.”

“That’s not even close to dawn! And don't call me Eds!”

As Eddie and Richie began to bicker, Bill turned to gaze out the window and saw a bright red balloon rising from the gutter. The block letters of ‘I love Derry’ shone under the morning light.

* * *

Mike had been stabbed.

It was such alarming news that it took several minutes for it to fully register in Bill’s mind.

Mike had been stabbed. He was in a stable condition, but he’d been stabbed by escaped convict Henry Bowers (he hadn't even known Henry was alive!), and now he was in the hospital. He wouldn't be able to join them in the sewer. Even if he had been well enough to move, Bill wouldn't have asked that of him. But there was only five of them now, and Bill's trepidation was growing, and he was starting to wonder if five would be enough-

He felt Eddie’s hand settle upon his shoulder, a warm and comforting presence. It drew him immediately out of his despair.

“Bill,” said Eddie quietly. “Do you want to visit him? He’s not awake but we- we can still go, if you want to.”

The other Losers were looking at him expectantly, desperate for guidance.

Taking a deep breath, Bill forced himself to calm down. He wouldn't be much of a leader while in the throes of a panic attack.

“Is H-Henry still at large?” he asked, casting a nervous glance at the hotel restaurant window. Dark as it was, he couldn’t see anything beyond it.

“No,” said Richie, solemn for once in his life. “Mike stabbed him in the eye. He’s dead.”

“I didn’t even know he was alive,” murmured Beverly.

“He lived after falling down the well,” said Ben, speaking slowly. “It used him as a scapegoat for the local crimes. He’s been in a mental hospital for the criminally insane for the last twenty seven years.”

Bill wasn’t sure how to take that news. He had never been a fan of Henry, and nor had Henry been a fan of him, but being abused, controlled, and then killed after being incarcerated for twenty seven years for murders he hadn’t even committed was a pitiable life. He hadn’t deserved much better, perhaps, but no one deserved  _that_.

Bill took another centering breath. "Okay, and d-does everyone r-remember what happened last time we fu-f-fought It?"

There was an uneasy chorus of yes'.

“Yeah," said Bill quietly. "M-me too." A pause to gather his courage. "W-we need to go n-now, then. Mike said we h-had to do it t-t-tonight."

“Are you sure?” asked Ben. “Without Mike and Stan, there’s only five of us.”

“No, Bill’s right,” piqued up Beverly. “We can’t wait for Mike to recover, and Stan…” Her mouth twitched into an aggrieved frown. “If Its desperate enough to send Henry after us, then it’s going to start doing worse soon. We have to go after it now.”

Bill retrieved a duffel bag full of weaponry from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. An odd sense of déjà vu washed over him, strong enough to give Bill pause, and when he glanced down at his feet he almost expected to see ratty sneakers with loose laces instead of work boots. The memory of entering the Neibolt house armed with nothing but flashlights, Mike’s gun, some metal bars, and a righteous anger rose up vivid to the forefront of his mind.

He would make sure to finish the job this time, even if he had to follow it into the darkest, deepest depths of its lair. He would rip that fucker to shreds with his bare hands if he had to.

“We almost beat it l-last time, and we wh-w-were only kids. We can do t-this.”

“I think being kids worked to our benefit,” said Eddie.

Bill shrugged, gesturing for the Losers’ to follow him out into the street. “Doesn’t m-mean there isn’t some buh-b-benefit to being adults this t-time.”

“I don’t really feel like an adult,” murmured Richie, and Bill found himself agreeing.

They walked solemnly out into the warm summers night. Bill suspected they wouldn’t be returning to their hotel rooms until the early hours of the morning.

But they  _would_  be returning. He would make sure of that.

He adjusted his grip on his duffel bag and began walking. The Losers’ followed suit.

* * *

Navigating the sewers was just as grimy and unpleasant as Bill remembered. Grey water seeped into his shoes and crawled up his pant legs, turning the skin beneath slick and chilled. He found himself shivering as they advanced on Its living quarters, and he fought to still himself, not wanting to appear afraid when they confronted the beast. It was fear that gave the thing its power, and he didn't want to give it even a taste.

The sewer became darker the further down they went. Each of them had brought a touch, but it was only strong enough to illuminate a few feet ahead of them. The black was unnaturally thick, squeezing at what little light they had so they were groping half-blind through the pipes. They took a few turns on the journey, but kept straight, for the most part.

They knew they were going the right way when they started to hear faint carnival music on the horizon and smell the sickly sweet scent of caramel popcorn and candyfloss. Faint voices resonated off the walls of the pipes, words indistinguishable but tones clearly jovial. A hint of orange blinked into being at the end of the pipe, and everyone but Bill stopped in surprise. Bill surged straight ahead, dragging his feet through the water, eager to find the clown and throttle the life out of it. He threw himself out of the mouth of the pipe with a hand fisted around one of the metal bars he'd brought along.

The sounds and smells of the carnival abruptly ceased. Bill heard silence for all of a second before it was filled by the reverberating racket of his friends rushing up to meet him. As he turned, he heard the hiss of metal scraping along metal, and the slam of the cover securing itself over the mouth, and raised his torch just in time to see the latch falling into place.

Multiple voices screamed out his name, so loud that he wasn’t able to identify who they belonged to. He sloshed his way up to the pipe and fumbled with the rusted latch, shaking fingers sliding uselessly over the metal as he tried to find purchase to pull it back.

“F-fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He’d separated himself from the Losers last time, too, hadn’t he? History repeats itself.

"Bill!" That was Beverly's voice. "Are you okay? Is it in there?" 

He swivelled his torch around the room in search of It and found nothing. What he did find were several alternate exists. He must have reached a junction.

“There’s other openings here,” he yelled to them. “I’ll go down one and start yelling. Head toward my voice.”

Abandoning the latch, Bill tightened his grip on his weapon and slid the torch between his teeth, adjusting it so it illuminated the ground before him. Casting cautious glances at each opening, he slowly crossed the room, heading for the pipe adjacent to the one holding his friends. The room didn’t appear to hold It, though the clown had given every indication it had been prepared to confront them  _here_. Confronting Bill here would have been even better, because Bill was alone. So where was it? He glanced up at the ceiling, nervous, but even if it had been up there, preparing to leap down upon him, he wouldn’t have been able to see It through the dark. The slice of light provided by his torch only reached so far.

He pressed on, climbing into the mouth of the next pipe.

“Boo.”

Bill screamed. He saw only a glimpse of the clown before the torch slid free of his mouth, falling onto the floor of the pipe with a loud crunch. He took stumbling steps back, arms cartwheeling briefly before he went slamming into the water below. When he heard the clown join him in the shallow water, he grasped his pole in both hands and slammed it as hard as possible in its approximate direction, grinning with exhilaration when he felt the strike connect.

While the clown was grunting, winded – he must have struck it in the stomach – Bill clamoured to his feet and started to run, blindly feeling his way into the mouth of the nearest exit. He started to run through the dark, arms extended to prevent him from running into a wall.

“Guys!” he bellowed, dragging his fingers along the pipe as he ran. He could hear nothing but his own laboured breaths and the splash of water under his sodden boots. “Guys! It’s Bill! I found It! Call out if you hear me!”

They must not have been able to, because he received no response.

The pipe ended in a sudden dip and suddenly, horribly, Bill was airborne. The pole slid from his fingers. For just a moment, he wondered if he was doing to die, if he would hit the ground at such an incredible speed that his bones would crack and his organs would rupture. There was, after all, no way of telling how far down Its lair went.

Instead of landing upon the cement, he was pulled out of the air by a strong set of hands and cradled to a broad chest.

“You really ought to be more careful, Billy boy. You could've  _died_.”

Bill immediately tried to evict himself from the arms tucked under his back and legs, thrusting a palm up against Its chest. He pushed, and flailed, and twisted his body, but It merely had to tighten its grip to keep him in place.

“Time to float.”

A slither of drool fell upon his cheek. Bill shuddered and slammed his fists as hard as he could into its shoulders, hitting it over and over, trying to compel it to let him go. With a grunt, It let his legs fall into the shallow water and grasped his wrists, holding his hands out of the way.

“Naughty boy,” It said, giving his wrists a warning squeeze. The thin bones inside creaked in protest. Bill groaned past clenched teeth. “Didn’t your parents teach you any manners, Billy? Georgie was so well behaved before he died.”

“Fuck you,” he snarled. “I wasn’t s-scared of you as a k-kid, and I’m not scared of you now.”

It leaned in close, its orange eyes illuminating the unnatural white of its skin.

“I’ll make you scared,” it said coolly.

“You c-can’t," Bill snapped back. "B-because I’m not like you. I'm not a-afraid to die.”

He was surprised by the conviction in his words. He’d said them to bolster his confidence, but he truly wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid of It, and he wasn’t afraid to die.

There were worse things than death. Stan had known that.

It wrinkled its nose. “I never said I was going to kill you.” One of its hands dragged up his rib cage, tapping each one as though they were piano keys. “There’s more than one way to float, Little Buddy.”

More than one way to float. He’d heard that before.

“I’ll show you how,” It continued, and Bill’s heart turned to ice in his chest.

The dream.

The hand continued up his body, siding over his clavicle and neck, across his jaw and over his scalp. Bill scarcely breathed.

“I intend to show you  _everything_ , Billy. You’re going to float, and float, and float… with me...”

He looked into its eyes and saw the full extent of its fury, the full extent of its desire, and he was terrified.

Before he could utter a word in response, the hand against his scalp sent him slamming into a wall. 

* * *

Consciousness returned to Bill slowly, dimly, as if through a dreamlike gauze. The first thing to breach his awareness was the cold. It was an awful, all-encompassing cold that burrowed beneath his skin and burned at his sinew, prompting him into full awareness. He shivered violently as he peeled open his aching eyes. His head throbbed in tandem with his heartbeat. He had a migraine, but he was so cold that it was of little concern. He mindlessly shoved his chilled fingers beneath his armpits and brought his knees to his chest, attempting to preserve what little warmth his body had left.

Recognition of where he was, and what he was doing there followed at the heels of sensation, and he shot upright with a gasp, attempting and failing to pull himself to his feet. He must have had a concussion, because his vision spun and his gut churned and he found himself unable to take more than a few steps before the urge to vomit sent him back to the floor.

He could see the room he was in. Light streamed in from a grate high above him, highlighting four grimy walls, a single exit, and another small, slumped figure tucked into a corner. He wasn’t alone.

“Richie,” he crowed with relief, reaching for him.

Richie stirred, activity visible behind his eyelids.

“Richie, t-thank god.” He went to crawl over to him, and his hand landed in a warm stream of liquid. He went to wipe it off on his trousers and shuddered when he realised it was blood.

He followed the stream to its source, and saw with dread that Richie was missing a leg. Missing his left leg right up to the thigh.

“Oh fuck.” He grasped Richie by the upper arm and gave him a gentle shake. "Richie? Richie? P-please, please talk to me!"

“Bill…” Richie’s pale face turned to him. “You’re alive.”

“Y-yeah.”

“Can’t say the same for myself,” said Richie quietly, dropping his eyes to the vacant space where his leg should have been. “Well, soon I won’t be able to, anyway. Guess I won’t be able to say much of anything since I’ll be dead.”

“No.” Bill shook like an aspen, bringing Richie into his arms and attempting to carry him bridal style. He needed to get them out of there. “I’ll get you to a h-h-hospital, you’ll be fu-f-fine.”

“I’ll die before you get me there.” Richie tried to pry off Bill’s arms, but he was too weak to do so. “Y’gotta… you gotta run, Bill, or it'll kill you too.”

Bill was openly weeping now, and he had to catch his bottom lip between his teeth to stop it from trembling. “It’ll be o-okay. I’ll get you out of h-here.”

Richie shook his head. Or flopped it from side to side, rather. The puddle of blood beneath him was expanding dangerously fast. “Just run, Big Bill.”

Bill burrowed his face into Richie’s neck, holding him close. “W-where are the o-o-others?”

“Don’t know.” Richie inhaled sharply. “It got Eds.”

“What about B-Beverly? And Ben?”

There was a lengthy silence before Richie spoke again. “Bill, you need to run.” He pressed a sloppy kiss to Bill’s cheek, chuckling weakly. His lips were as cold and stiff as marble. “And I... I really gotta go back to sleep…”

"Richie!"

The sound of his laboured breaths slowly receded. Bill could barely hear them over the force of his sobbing, rocking them both back and forth as the last hints of life abandoned Richie’s slack body. He lowered Richie back to the floor only after he had fallen entirely still, then climbed his way up the wall, wiping his cheeks dry on a shirt sleeve. It took him a moment to gather his bearings enough to lumber his way across the room and to the exit.

The others could still be alive. They could escape together.

But Richie hadn’t answered when he’d asked where they were…

A fresh spill of tears dripped off his chin as he slid into the exit pipe, crawling for a liberation he didn’t deserve. He had failed spectacularly. His friends had trusted him to take command and lead them to victory, and instead-

The pipe took a sharp curve up, and Bill realised with growing despair that he wouldn’t be able to climb to the top without a ladder. Sniffling, he nonetheless rose to his feet, feeling around the circumference of the pipe for some means of climbing up. When he found nothing, he wanted so badly to scream, his throat clenching around the beginnings of a wail.

"No, no, no, no," he whispered, pressing his forehead to the cool metal.

Warm arms encircled his torso. He thought for one wonderful, delirious moment that Ben had found him, before the ruffled fabric of Its sleeve touched his bare skin.

“L-let go of me,” he cried, and he felt himself being pulled back, back into the room containing Richie's lifeless corpse. It snickered as he squirmed in its grasp, full of terrifying glee. One of Its hands skated over his scalp like he was a particularly rambunctious pet.

Bill struggled madly until he simply hadn’t the strength to struggle anymore. When he finally fell still, It pressed him flush to Its chest, one arm around his waist and the other draped over his shoulders, imprisoning him in its too-long limbs.

“If you l-leave my friends a-alone-“ He hadn’t any bargaining chips left to use, but he had to try.

“Too late for that, Little Buddy.” It laughed its high, noxious laugh and Bill’s stomach plummeted to his feet. “They died  _screaming_.”

Bill found his couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, choked by his grief. Richie’s lifeless eyes watched him from the far left corner of the room.

It leaned its face into the side of his neck and breathed in deep. “There it is,” It purred. “ _Fear_.” It caught one of Bill’s hands in Its own and swayed them slowly in parody of a dance. “You’re going to float in all the  _best_  ways, Little Buddy,” it murmured in his ear. “You’ll forget all about your friends. It’ll just be me and you until the end of time.”

Bill finally recovered his voice, and he threw open his mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed.


End file.
